


Bedside Manner

by sue_denimme



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sue_denimme/pseuds/sue_denimme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pippin awakens after the last battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

I awaken to the last thing I ever would have expected: birdsong. Yes, there are birds chirping and chattering, above and around me. I blink my gummy eyes slowly open, and stare stupidly at the flecks of sunlight dancing through canvas.

"Where am I?" My voice is a hoarse mumble. I barely recognize the sound of it.

A familiar-sounding snort greets my query, and I turn my head to behold Gimli stirring in a chair beside the bed. His eyes open, focus on me, and his face is split by a grin.

"So you have rejoined the living at last, Master Hobbit," he says.

"Gimli?" Fool of a Took, I think to myself. Of course it's Gimli, who else could it be?

Fortunately, he either doesn't notice my lapse into the obvious or kindly refrains from pointing it out. "Aye, lad. How do you feel?"

Now, there's an interesting question. I shift my weight, intending to sit up, and discover a new world of pain. "Ow," I say eloquently.

"Well, I suppose that answers that," Gimli says cheerfully. He can't seem to stop grinning. It's almost frightening.

I lay back down. "Where am I, Gimli? What happened? The last thing I remember is..." I stop. What _is_ the last thing? Let's see -- darkness, a crushing weight, pain, and a voice crying out something about eagles coming. I remember thinking that it sounded like something out of one of Bilbo's stories. After that -- nothing.

"Hmph. It's not surprising you don't know." He takes a breath. "A troll fell on you, laddie. The one you killed, saving your friend Beregond. But your hobbit luck saved you once again -- his full weight was blocked from you, by his own arm. If not for that, you would have suffocated before I saw your foot sticking out from under him, and dragged you out. As it was, I thought you were dead; you were barely breathing. But I should have known never to underestimate a hobbit! You came out of it a wee bit scraped and with a bruise inside your head, not to mention a broken bone here and there, but nothing worse. And now, here you are."

A sort of groan escapes my lips as I now observe that there are stiff wrappings around my ribs and my right leg, and my left arm is in a sling. "Where's here?" I ask, still feeling groggy.

"Ithilien."

"Ithilien? But we were at the Black Gate." Even as I say it, I realize that we can't possibly be at the Black Gate. No birds would be there at all, let alone singing.

"It's been a week since the battle, lad," Gimli says gently. "You were brought here with the rest of the wounded, to a place called Cormallen, while the bulk of the armies are cleaning up what remains of the Enemy's forces at the Morannon. Not that I expect there to be much to clean up, the way they were fleeing at the end. 'Twas indeed a sight to behold! I'm only sorry that you missed it."

I barely hear the last couple of sentences. "The end? What do you mean? You mean -- we won?" I am dizzy at the thought.

"Aye, lad, or you wouldn't be able to ask, and I wouldn't be here to answer!" He chuckles.

"But...there were so many of them," I whisper, bewildered.

"At least ten for every one of us," he agrees. "I don't mind saying, I thought all was lost, and the only thing we could do was go down fighting. But then -- "

"Then what?"

Gimli is silent for a moment. "The Eagles came," he breathes at last, wonder in his voice, as if he's not sure he can trust his own memory. "They fought the Ringwraiths, until the wraiths suddenly broke off and raced away south. Soon after, the ground shook. A great shadow rose up. Rose up, and was blown away by the wind. It _was_ the end, Pippin -- the end of the Dark Lord. Sauron is no more."

Somehow those words only bring more confusion. "But how? The only way to destroy him was to destroy the Ring, wasn't it? And -- they said --- that awful Mouth said that Frodo -- "

I choke on the words, tears burning my eyes and spilling down my face, as I heave with uncontrollable sobs, crumpling into a ball on the bed. I almost welcome the pain that stabs my ribs; it seems only fitting. Here I am, alive, hearing birds and seeing sunlight, with only a few aches to trouble me, while Frodo is either dead or enduring agonies so horrible as to be beyond my imagining, cold and alone and afraid, and there is nothing I can do, nothing...

I am unaware of anyone leaving or entering the tent, but suddenly there is a large warm hand on my back, and a voice. Strider's -- no, the King's -- voice. "Pippin? Pippin, sssh, it's all right."

"Strider! Strider, Frodo -- "

"Pippin, listen to me. Frodo is alive, and so is Sam. They're here. Gandalf and the eagles found them on the slopes of Mount Doom."

"The -- the Mouth said -- "

"It was a lie, Pippin. If you don't believe me, I'll take you to see them."

Slowly the words penetrate, and I unfold myself a little, lifting my head to peer wetly over my shoulder at him. He smiles, and gently dabs my face with a handkerchief.

"But, he showed us Frodo's clothes, his mail shirt -- Sam's sword..."

Aragorn nods somberly as he settles into the chair where Gimli had been sitting. There is no sign of Gimli; I guess that he had gone to get Aragorn and then left. "I know. We've been able to piece together a little of the story. Gandalf has read some of their memories, and also there are a couple of orc prisoners who have been talking. It seems that, yes, Frodo was captured by the orcs at Cirith Ungol." I gasp, but he goes on. "They would have stripped him; it's what they do to all their captives. I can only suppose that one of the orcs brought the clothes, the mithril shirt and the sword to the Dark Tower. That is likely how they came to be in the Mouth's possession."

"But if they stripped Frodo, wouldn't they have found the Ring?"

"We believe that, by what may seem like sheer luck, Frodo didn't have it on him." At my confused look, he sighs a little. "From what Gandalf has been able to learn, they had been attacked by some creature in the pass, and Frodo was stung by it and poisoned -- there are a couple of small puncture wounds on the back of his neck. Sam believed him dead, and took the Ring in order to fulfill the Quest."

Tears start in my eyes. Poor Sam, what a horrible decision that must have been for him to make!

"It was then that the Orcs captured Frodo. But Sam was able to learn from their talk that his master was alive, that he had only been drugged. We're not sure how, but he rescued Frodo, and they continued across Mordor."

I am speechless. My own experiences -- getting dragged through Rohan, looking in the glass, the siege of Gondor, witnessing Denethor's end -- seem trifling by comparison.

Aragorn shakes his head in wonder. Apparently his thoughts are similar to mine. "What they must have endured -- it is astonishing. But they survived, Pippin. And the Quest succeeded at the last. All of Middle-earth owes your cousin and his gardener -- and indeed all four of you hobbits -- a debt that can never be repaid. Though I intend to make the attempt, regardless." He smiles.

I struggle to sit up straight on the bed, but in the end he has to help me. I fix him with the steeliest look of determination I can muster. "I want to see them. You promised."

"And I will keep that promise. But first, I need to examine you, then make sure you have something to eat."

He does just that, too. I wonder what the people of Gondor would think if they could see their new King now, fussing over an injured hobbit like a hen over a chick. Meanwhile, he is telling me what has been happening since the battle, but I am only interested in one thing he says: that they have sent to Minas Tirith for supplies, and when they come, Merry will come with them. He should be arriving tomorrow.

Finally I have finished my breakfast -- a small bowl of porridge and some lembas -- and he puts aside the bowl and spoon. He looks at me gravely. "Before I take you, Pippin, you need to be prepared for what you will see. Frodo and Sam were in Mordor for close to two weeks, with hardly any food or water. Gandalf guesses that they had been completely without sustenance for at least two days, and had had very little for several days before that. You may find the sight of them rather difficult to bear."

"I don't care how they look, Strider. I have to see them!" I am near to tears again with impatience.

"I know, Pippin, but there is more. Frodo -- has lost a finger." I stare at him in shock. "The wound was fresh, meaning it happened at Mount Doom. From the look of it, it was bitten off by some creature."

"Gollum?" I whisper, remembering Faramir's report.

"We think so. But we won't know the full story until Frodo and Sam awake."

"When will that be?"

"Perhaps a week, perhaps more. They were on the brink of death, and I had to call them as I did Faramir and the others in the Houses of Healing. When they wake, however, there will be rejoicing and feasting such as even you hobbits have never seen before." He stands up, smiling. "Are you ready?"

I nod eagerly, and he picks me up and carries me to another tent nearby. There are two beds, and on them there are two...figures.

I had thought I was ready, really I did, but at first I can't even believe that they are hobbits, let alone Frodo and Sam. Aragorn was right, the sight of them is indeed difficult to bear. Scarred, wasted, shriveled, gaunt as scarecrows. They look as if they would crumble into dust and blow away if I touched them. I can't stop the sob that heaves my battered chest.

"It's all right, Pippin," Aragorn says softly. "Actually, they have improved a great deal from when they were rescued. Hobbits are most remarkable creatures, as you are no doubt getting tired of hearing by now." He smiles a little.

Improved? I can't imagine how they could have looked any worse than they do now, except that they were probably a lot dirtier.

The beds are Man-sized, and so there is plenty of room for Aragorn to sit me down beside Frodo. My cousin does not stir a muscle. For a moment fear seizes my heart: he is so still, perhaps Strider is mistaken and he is dead after all. I look up, tears in my eyes.

"They are in a very deep sleep," Aragorn continues. "But I believe they may be able to hear you if you talk to them, even if they do not remember later. I think it may comfort them to hear your voice. I will leave you for a few minutes."

When he is gone, I look down at Frodo. Somehow I am struck by the absurd desire to make sure it is indeed my cousin lying there. Slowly, I move my good hand to the sheet covering him, and pull it back, then I tug the neck of his nightshirt aside -- it is far too big for him, and gaps easily -- to look at his left shoulder. Yes, there is the scar from the Morgul blade, as icy-white as I remember it.

I study his face. It's the same face I have loved since I was a faunt, but it looks startlingly older somehow, as if he had aged twenty years in just the one month and some days since I had last seen him. But it looks peaceful, and maybe once he has some flesh back he will again look his eerily youthful self.

I take his left hand; the right is swathed in bandages, and from that I guess that it is the one that is missing a finger. Holding his hand with my injured one, I reach up with the other to brush back a lock of hair from his forehead. His hair has grown, much longer than is his habit. _He won't like that_ , I think, vaguely amused at the image of the look on Frodo's face when he first sees himself in a mirror. Leaning slowly and gingerly forward, despite the protest of my ribs, I kiss his brow, barely brushing his skin with my lips.

"Hullo, Frodo," I whisper, sitting carefully back up and stroking his hand. For a moment, I can't think of anything to say that could possibly fit this occasion. But then the words come: a trickle to a spate to a flood.

"Well, this is a change. I've never known you to be ill before -- well, not seriously so. And now twice in the span of half a year you're at death's door." I take a deep breath, and smile. "But Strider says you'll be awake in a week or so, and he should know. I can't wait to see you up and laughing and eating again, putting some flesh back on your bones. You never were exactly a heavyweight, you know, but oh, if you could see yourself now! No hobbit should ever be as thin as you are, and Sam looks no better. Well, I'd probably look like that too, if I'd walked through Mordor for nearly two weeks with hardly any food or water. Whatever possessed you to do that anyway, you silly hobbit?"

Not surprisingly, Frodo doesn't answer. I almost grin. This is practically unprecedented, that I should be able to rattle on and on at him, without him rolling his eyes or telling me, in that gentle way of his, to belt up and let someone else get a word in edgewise.

"Remember when we first met Strider, and I was trying to be smart, and I said we might all look the same as him if we'd been lying for days in hedges and ditches? The look he gave me! Anyway, you _do_ look a fright, cousin, and I know you'd be the first to admit it."

I pause for breath, smiling. "Oh well, never mind that. We'll have you to rights in no time, once you wake up, Merry and I. And Sam." I glance fondly over at dear old Sam, slumbering away in the next bed with a bandage on his forehead. "Sam...he really did see it through, to the end, didn't he?" I sigh. "You know, you might laugh to hear this, but I think perhaps in the old days I might have been jealous of him. Or angry that you trusted him and not us in the end. But I don't feel like that now, and I wouldn't even if I thought he had given you a choice in the matter. I'm just grateful that at least you had someone, and there couldn't have been anyone better than Sam. Gandalf would probably say it was meant to be this way." A thought strikes me, and I sit up excitedly, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. "Oh yes, you didn't know, did you? Gandalf is alive! He won't say how, just that he was sent back to finish his task, whatever that means. I don't really care, though, because he did come back and things would have been much, much worse if he hadn't."

As quickly as it came, the excitement leaves me, and I gaze down at his face. Somehow, for a moment, I see it as I imagine a stranger might look on it, as the face of, not my cousin Frodo, but the Ring-bearer. It's probably my imagination, or a trick of the sunlight flickering through the leaves above, but I could swear that I can see a slight glow about him, as if he were a glass with a star shining inside.

"You did it, Frodo. You really did it." I shake my head in amazement. "Who would have thought that a hobbit would save Middle-earth, or that that hobbit would be my very own cousin? Just imagine, a hobbit doing what all the greatest warriors of Men and Elves couldn't! I imagine everyone is absolutely on pins and needles, waiting to see you. And when you wake, there'll be a great feast, and we'll get to see you and Sam squirm and blush and try not to hide under the table while they sing your praises."

I chuckle at the thought. "Yes, poor Frodo, you are in for yet another trial. Perhaps not as horrible as the one you just finished, but likely quite wearisome to you nonetheless, if I know you at all. But soon it'll be over, and we can all go home."

A tear comes to my eye at the thought of home, but I smile. "I miss home. I miss us, as we were. Remember, Frodo? When adventure was just a dream, a tale for a winter evening by the fire, and the worst problem I had was avoiding whoever I'd last played a prank on?" I snort. "You were always the best one to prank, you know. Remember all the times I made a horrible mess in your kitchen, and then I would give you that Look, the one that always made you sigh and get the mop and help me clean it up? Or when I made paper dragons out of your most expensive stationery? Or when I tied a little bell into your foot hair while you were napping, and then laughed at the look on your face as you ran about trying to figure out where the ringing was coming from?"

I laugh out loud, and it feels good, despite my ribs. Then I reach over to stroke Frodo's face again. He has an expression that looks like it might almost be a smile.

"You do know why I did those things, don't you, Frodo? Well, partly it was because you always took things so seriously -- until it dawned on you that you were being had -- and that made you especially fun to tease. But mostly it was to get your attention. Whenever you were scowling or shouting at me -- even though I could tell you were trying not to laugh even in the middle of your lecture -- it meant you cared. And I treasured that. Because deep down, you were always the one person I most admired, the one I most wanted to make proud of me, even more than my own parents in some ways. Merry is my brother, but you are my hero, Frodo. You always were. And now you're the world's hero too, like it or not, so now I get to be the one who's proud of you."

My sniffle almost drowns out the sound of footsteps, and Gandalf's voice behind me. "As are we all," he says quietly. Startled, I look up, and see his eyes smiling from beneath his snowy brows. "Yes, you four have fulfilled the hopes and the faith of the Wise in ways that we could never have dreamed possible, and Frodo most especially. No matter what happens, his name shall be blessed through the ages to come."

"I hope so," I say, and am rewarded by a gentle embrace. "But just for now, Gandalf, what I most want to know is that he'll be all right. He will, won't he?"

Gandalf's hesitation is so brief, I must be imagining it. "If love can make it so, then surely it shall be," he says. "Come, my lad. Before Aragorn regrets letting you get up, and forbids you from seeing Frodo and Sam until the feast."

"He wouldn't do that, would he, Gandalf?"

"Take care that you don't find out, Peregrin Took. Now, back to bed with you."

I turn back to Frodo. "Well, Frodo, since I am being ordered about, I suppose I will have to go. Sleep well, cousin. I love you. I'll see you tomorrow."

I am almost sure I hear a murmur from Frodo in reply. And, feeling both reassured and hopeful, I let Gandalf pick me up and carry me away, back to my own bed, where I dream that a little bell is ringing.

~end~


End file.
